


The Myth of Amras

by BizarreAmy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, Last two definitely deserve a tag of their own, Mentioned Amrod, Oath of Fëanor, Taur im Duinath, The Avari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:08:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29994351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BizarreAmy/pseuds/BizarreAmy
Summary: The world in Amras' hands, he fumbled with. Was he given a broken one or had he smashed it himself? He knew not. Neither did he know if he could build a new one with the pieces. If he deserved to.Or a brief look at Amras' life.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	The Myth of Amras

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HoundsofValinor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoundsofValinor/gifts).



> A late birthday gift to my dear friend, Will o' wisp!  
> This was inspired by the fact that "the Ents were either souls sent to inhabit trees, or else that slowly took the likeness of trees owing to their inborn love of trees" (as found on Tolkiengateway).

They all said it. In distant conversations behind his back, in hushed talks nearby, and even in quick pleasantries exchanged with him. "Amras hasn't been the same since Amrod," they said. And every time this happened, Amras wanted to ask, "Since Amrod what?"

Since Amrod had been born? Thus changing Amras' whole existence from the Sixth Fëanorion to 'one of the twins'? Or since Amrod had fallen from his mare while hunting and broken his leg? Which had then led to a serious talk about Amras being the older of the two, albeit by a few minutes, and what being an older brother really meant? Or was it since Amrod had cut off his hair in a fit of rebellion? An act that had made Amras realise for the first time that he had a separate existence from Amrod because people no longer mistook one for the other?

"Which was it!?" Amras wanted to shout, wanted them to elaborate. But he never asked and they never answered. Because it was obvious, wasn't it? The words they left unsaid - in a futile bid to spare his feelings. "Amras hasn't been the same since Amrod died," they meant and Amras wasn't sure if he should tell them that it hadn't been his death that had affected him so. Not really.

The truth was that Amras had changed considerably after his twin's death. But it was less him dying and more the startling fact that he had died at all. It had been an offhand remark by Caranthir that had lifted the veil of ignorance Amras had been wearing to protect himself from the harsh reality they found themselves bound to.

"I cannot even recall what I said when I last saw him," Caranthir had commented, taking another swig of the wine in his hand. "Yet that is the memory I have to live by until we meet him again. Which might as well be when Arda is remade."

That had sparked a heated debate about the impossibility of their Oath and what 'eternal darkness' awaited them. But Amras hadn't listened. He couldn't have. Because while the world might yet be ages away from being broken, Amras' world as he knew it had already been shattered. The fractures had been there long before Amrod had died. Before he had fallen through the widening cracks and left Amras with the ruins of his life.

Was not death a vague possibility for elves? Was not re-embodiment a certainty they lived by? Were these two undeniable facts not the pillars his reality had been built upon? Yet here he was. With death the certainty and re-embodiment the vague possibility in his life now. The two fundamental truths of his reality, reversed on the whims of a Vala. Perhaps his father had been right about them. Perhaps Mandos' wrath was irrational at best and vindictive at worst.

Or perhaps his father himself had been the cause of that wrath.

The worst part was that Amras didn't know when the first blow to his reality had landed. Was it the Doom? Was it the Oath? Or the death of Finwë? The theft of the Silmarils? When had Amras started walking down a path that was crumbling underneath with every step he took? Until there was no path but a pit he was constantly falling into, unable to find his feet again. Which step was it that had inevitably led to his world falling down around him?

Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe he had been born into a broken world. Maybe the world had been ruptured by the acts of others long before him. Maybe it was always supposed to be this way.

Mayhap Amras was meant to endure pain not of his own making all along.

* * *

_Some said the forest was mourning. It wailed as the wind blew, howled as the night settled in, and keened as the skies opened up. A constant lament of its unseen pain. "Venture not forth lest you be driven mad by its grief," they'd warn the children. Yet they themselves would leave food and other offerings just inside the treeline, as consolation, "Heal well, Spirit of the Forest."_

_But generations after generations went by and Taur-im-Duinath still wept in solitude._

* * *

When the time came for the Fëanorions to establish strongholds of their own, Amras - as the youngest - was naturally put in a well-protected region. But he didn't mind, not really. Out of all the brothers, Amras was the most akin in temperament to Nerdanel. Fëanor was like the fire in his name - prone to going where the wind took him. But Nerdanel was like the clay she created with - attached to the ground, unmoving. And Amras had taken after her, finding joy in being rooted to a place yet stretching towards the limitless sky. So being assigned to Amon Ereb and its surrounding area, far away from the gates of Angband, it was no hardship to him. The other Ambarussa might have objected had he been alive, but he wasn't and so, Amras didn't dwell on it.

It was strange being alone and leading your own people, however small the count might be. All his life, Amras had been a follower. Of the High King, of his father, of his older brothers, of his own whims. Yet here he was, given the freedom to lead himself for once and Amras had never felt more shackled. Liberty and responsibility couldn't go hand in hand for him.

But Amras had underestimated the appeal of moving out of the tall shadows of his brothers. For now he could grow, far as the sky and deep as the earth. He could plant himself in the ground and a forest of his people would grow around him. It was a sense of belonging that had remained alien to him before. Amras had never been more content.

Yet the contentment wasn't without its excitement. For there came visitors of all shapes and sizes in the South-East of Beleriand - young, old, elf, man, dwarf. And that was how Amras had heard the tale of the Laiquendi King. It spoke of the bravery Denethor had shown when death towered over him and it spoke of how afterwards, Amon Ereb was lonely no more. "Slain was Denethor the elf in the dark," the tale said. "And green was the blood on his bark."

"That was also the day that the Taur-im-Duinath came alive" - was the conclusion of the grand story. Though seven decades of the Sun had passed since then, it was still a mystery to some and a warning to others. But for Amras, it was simply an escape. The enigma that was the Laiquendi King and his connection to the Silent Forest that was silent no more, piqued Amras' curiosity to no end. It occupied his mind wholly, eclipsing all else - enough to push the constant looming presence of the Oath to the far back. And Amras clung to that lifeline obsessively.

Thus he ventured into the far south, meeting the Avari who dwelt there. The welcome was lukewarm but Amras was a hunter by skill, and this was a chase he wasn't giving up on. So he persevered. Relentless in his pursuit of a friendship the Avari were too wary to give. Yet somewhere down the years, on one of his frequent visits to their lands by the forest, a quiet fondness grew. Amras knew not when it happened but he went from being a barely tolerated Eldar to a grudging ally and with the transition came a wealth of knowledge. The secrets the Avari had guarded close were now carefully taught to Amras, and chief among them was their knowledge of the trees.

"Our love for the earth of Arda was greater than the allure of the light of Valinor," one had explained. Amras didn't hesitate in believing it, because truly, the bond the Avari had with the earth and all the things that grow from it could not be explained. Neither could it be replicated. But Amras tried, visit after visit he learned the music all earth-bound things shared. And the more he learned, the more he pestered the Avari for a trek into the Taur-im-Duinath. Yet the answer remained the same, "When you're ready you will be one with the forest." Though surprisingly, Amras never argued that he was ready, because to understand the language the trees and the earth spoke, he'd have to silence the Oath.

And even the oldest Avari didn't know how to do that and Amras was but a foolish soul bound to his words.

* * *

_Some believed the forest was haunted. Frozen in time by its past, reliving its better days on a loop. It used to be vibrant and youthful once, sheltering and nurturing life beneath its warm canopy. But now the life under it was as trapped as the forest itself, unable to be free - even in death. "Wander not inside lest it ensnare you for eternity," they'd warn the children. Yet every spring they'd ring bells by the treeline, chanting, "Wake up, spirit of the forest, flowers are waiting to bloom."_

_Inside Taur-im-Duinath, spring waited again and again, but winter never left._

* * *

Despite all of Amras' efforts to hide away from his reality, the world has coddled no one and he was no exception. This time too, the reminder was with fire. Flames upon flames from the enemy drove Caranthir to Amras' doorstep in Amon Ereb. And in-between battling the orcs and managing supplies to keep their forces running, Amras forgot to be upset with the abruptness of his circumstances. Neither was he angry or heartbroken. He just was.

But it seemed that what he was, was different. For when the fighting finally ceased, taking far too many lives yet leaving far too much life behind, Caranthir had commented, "You've changed, little brother."

Amras had smiled, shaking his head, "You saw me just last year, Moryo."

That should've ended there, the exchange not particularly noteworthy but it lingered in Amras' mind. He thought of how Caranthir had quietly replied "not like this" and stared at Amras for a beat too long. It drove Amras insane, trying to decipher that look in Caranthir's eyes and the meaning implicit in his words. What could Caranthir have had seen in the weeks they spent together killing orcs?

The answer didn't come to him, not for the long months they were picking up the pieces of their people in the aftermath of the Dagor Bragollach. No, it wasn't until Amras made a quick trip to the Avari to warn them of the broken siege that he realised what change Caranthir had been referring to. Or rather, what change Caranthir had seen but which had already been reversed. Because gone was Amras' ability to hear the faint whispers he could pick from the forest before. With the rise of the enemy from his slumber, it seemed the Oath had risen in his mind too. It had overtaken his subconscious, silencing all else, and Amras had been none the wiser.

"You're deaf to the music again, child," one of the elders had said, tsking.

Amras had wanted to remind her that had it been a choice, he wouldn't have ever let it go. But he hadn't needed to because she understood, just like she understood the earth and the trees. They'd always treated him more like one of their saplings than a full-grown elf, what with their ease in reading him and teaching him to grow. Perhaps that was why, when they parted once again, she patted his head gently, saying, "One day you shall choose without making a choice and they will listen." Needless to say, Amras walked away with more questions than he had come with.

That would be the last time he'd see the Avari. The war with Morgoth driving them away from Beleriand while it reeled him in - the same force pushing them in different directions. Amras didn't even have the sense to lament it, for the Oath was the one steering his mind and he was helpless under its iron-hand. He might have resisted once but surrounded by his brothers - all of whom shared the same bounds - it was nigh impossible to free himself. There was no uplifting to be found within his family, only mutual drowning. So Amras succumbed.

Many things they lost in quick succession - three brothers, two battles, and a Silmaril. While Nirnaeth might have been more damaging, it was the kinslaying at Doriath that broke them. Amras didn't care. Not really. He had become numb to everything except the agony the Oath made him go through. Pain has a way of making one's mind muddled, it was true enough for Maedhros. But pain lent a distinct clarity to Amras.

He could now see clearly that he hadn't been as constrained by his reality as he had thought. Amras had made choices and those choices had consequences, whether he liked them or not. The blame he had solely placed on others was his to share too. The Oath he had sworn himself, following his father and brothers lest he be left behind. His kin he had slain himself with his sword because bloodlust was a rush he hadn't known before. Amrod he had abandoned himself on that ship in a naive attempt to assert his independence from the one that shared his face but not his fate.

The world he resented so much for betraying his fantasies, was nothing but a projection of his mind. Maybe it had been he himself who had carved a reality of his own and then claimed it as ruined when it didn't live up to his expectations. Maybe Amras wasn't as innocent as he had deluded himself into believing.

No wonder he had failed in learning the forest's language. There was no love in Amras to spare beyond his own self.

It was with these thoughts churning inside his mind that Amras chased the Silmaril to the Havens of Sirion beside his two remaining brothers. And what he found there was yet more evidence of his own faults. Carnage he had left in his wake and carnage he found awaiting him. Blood after blood he spilt, frenzied by the pull of the Silmaril so close. Until a hue of verdant stood out in the sea of vermillion around him. A sapling of a flowering ash, bravely withstanding the assault of a scimitar in the clutches of a limping Noldorin soldier. There were twin voices crying out above, hidden among the thin but numerous branches of the sapling. Amras didn't think, just ran his sword through the already injured soldier. It was a dishonourable attack, done from the back and on one of his own.

But to Amras, the act of cutting down a tree for personal vendetta was even more heinous. And just as the soldier was punished with death for his crime, Amras was too. For an arrow pierced through the leather of his armour, from an unseen Sindarin archer, wedging itself straight into Amras' heart. It gave enough time for the elflings stuck in the tree to scamper away but Amras didn't regret it. He merely slumped down against the bark of the young tree, caressing it in gentle staccato motions, "Live a long life, my friend."

And death, when it came, was to the sound of sweet nothings whispered in his ears - the words of a language forgotten yet starkly familiar. Amras had never been happier.

But death was seldom an end for elvenkind. Amras expected it to be - an end that is - and it would've been, were it not for Yavanna.

"I don't understand," Amras had murmured, his voice near silent in awe of the Ainu before him. Yavanna, who said he could be one of her shepherds like Denethor had become after his death. Because she believed Amras had an innate love for her trees, which he had demonstrated in his final moments. But Amras couldn't comprehend how he and the Laiquendi King - who had been famous for his undying love for all things green - could be on the same footing. Amras was a sinner. Someone trapped in his own wrongs. He deserved no second chances. Yet here he was being offered one.

"You heard their music, did you not?" Yavanna had asked, ageless and timeless in the place between life and death. And admittedly, Amras had heard the ash tree singing to him, but it must have only been the imagination of his dying mind. A deluded consolation. She was wrong. He hadn't chosen the forest over the Oath, he couldn't. Saving the tree was but an apology for all he couldn't be. Nothing more. Right?

"Be that as it may, you have a choice before you now. Choose wisely, son of Fëanor," Yavanna had commanded, a hint of tenderness on her stern face.

And Amras thought it over, for countless moments. Had his love for the forest really overpowered the binds of the Oath? Was an act of kindness all it took to outweigh the wrongs he had committed? Amras didn't know what to believe. But he had once let his instincts make his decisions for him and perhaps they had failed him before. Yet they had also brought him here so he trusted them again. He could be reborn as the spirit inhabiting the sapling he had saved or he could rest in the Halls for eternity. The choice was his.

"I choose..."

* * *

_Some thought the forest was at rest. Buried in the flooding after the War, it lay in eternal sleep, as a concession to its pain and an apology for its past. Never to wake again. Yet some said that it had been reborn in the east, taking on a new shape and form to start over in a bid to overwrite the life it had lived before. But essentially the same. For some, Taur-im-Duinath was no more, but to others, Fangorn was its new name. "Be at peace, Spirit of the Forest," they all wished, whether in death or new life._

_And Taur-im-Duinath complied._

**Author's Note:**

> What do you think Amras chose in the end? Let me know! :)


End file.
